


A Place To Lie Down

by ellen_fremedon



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Community: makinghugospin, Drugs, Explicit Consent, Gangbang, Healing Sex, July Revolution, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Sex Pollen, Shame, Skin Hunger, kinkmeme fill, misappropriation of emotional moments from canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 13:42:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellen_fremedon/pseuds/ellen_fremedon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A purgation," Enjolras said. "You make it sound so respectably medical."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place To Lie Down

**Author's Note:**

> Written for and originally posted in slightly different form at the Les Miserables kinkmeme, http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com, for the prompt: 
> 
> **Enjolras/Amis [+ Marius]**
> 
> **Sex pollen fic!**
> 
> **Enjolras, snowed under with work and preparation for the revolution, gives in and buys a pill from a street vendor/science student/whatever that purports to rid you of the need for sleep. It works, but not without side effects.**
> 
> **Cue a desperate yet embarrassed Enjolras trying to explain his situation to the rest of the Amis and them figuring out how to solve the issue. And then everybody takes turns to fuck him \o/**
> 
>  **Bonus points for an overwhelmed and hating-that-he-loves-this Enjolras crying whilst one of them is fucking him (Courfeyrac, maybe?) and Grantaire going last and quietly asking a broken, fucked-out Enjolras for permission.**
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks to Petra for beta, to Sanj for cheerleading, to the OP at the kinkmeme for such a fantastic prompt, and to the anons at the kinkmeme for their comments.

  
  
  
  
Four times, after he gave up on sleep, the shaking of his hands forced him to set down his pen, and each time he took longer to recover his composure. The fifth time, he sat for hours at his desk, watching the shadows outside lengthen into dusk. He was still there, his hands trembling worse than ever, his thighs shaking, his breath going short whenever his mind wandered, when he heard Combeferre on the stairs. "Enjolras!"  
  
He grasped his right hand in his left, willing it to stop shaking, but each hand was a dead thing to the other—two great handfuls of carrion—and with a shudder he let them fall again onto the ink-smeared pages.  
  
Footsteps, two sets, neared the door; when the knock went unanswered, it was opened. "Enjolras? The meeting will be starting. Enjolras?" Combeferre hesitated in his doorway, Grantaire standing at his shoulder. At the sight of Enjolras' face he rushed inside. "Enjolras, good god. You sent us all home to get some sleep."  
  
"As I recall—" Enjolras winced at the sound of his own voice, raw and loud in his ears—"you sent us home. Over my objections."  
  
Combeferre pulled up the other chair. "Because we've been beaten. The Orléanists have stolen this revolution; all that's left to us now is to regroup and start the next one. And you are in no state to do that—did you sleep at all?"  
  
He could not suppress a laugh, a horrible noise, rawer than his voice and far more bitter. "I tried, Combeferre, I swear to you I did try."  
  
Combeferre reached for his hand, trembling on the desk, took it in both of his own and pushed up Enjolras' sleeve to feel his pulse. The simple touch—familiar, fraternal, never before unwelcome—was the first thing he had truly felt in days: warm, thrumming with blood and life, stripping bare the nerves of his fingers, palm, wrist—so much skin on a hand! So many joints that suddenly bent, curled, as Combeferre's innocent touch did what his own hands had not, in a long night of trying. Enjolras turned his head away, gasping in shame and horror as out of nowhere, orgasm seized and wracked his body.  
  
Combeferre caught his arms, held them, which only drew out the spasm, the heat of his hands through thin linen sweet and overwhelming. "Enjolras, you're ill. How long have you been like this? How—oh." He drew back, too late, as the scent of Enjolras' release hit his nostrils. "Enjolras?"  
  
A footstep; Enjolras had forgotten Grantaire, but he was still there, witnessing all of this. At least it might knock the clay feet from under his idol, Enjolras thought, and laughed again. When he looked up Grantaire had found the bottle—of course—and silently offered the tiny vial to Combeferre. "So," he said, "even the great marble lover of liberty needs more than the Republic to sustain him." His voice was a sharp contrast to Combeferre's, and not only in its note of betrayal; he had not fought on the barricades, was not hoarse from a week of revolution and would-be revolution. And yet still would have come to tonight's meeting, well-rested and fresher than all of them. Anger was a spar of normalcy on the heavy waters of shame and weariness, and Enjolras clung to it.  
  
Combeferre sniffed at the vial, and his mouth flattened as he recognized the scent. "Grantaire, run to the Musain and fetch Joly." He held it to the light to gauge the quantity left within. "And possibly one or two of the others."  
  
"Combeferre—" Enjolras began. "You—bad enough for you to see me like this, but—"  
  
"How much have you taken?" Combeferre interrupted.  
  
Enjolras swallowed. "The bottle was full when I bought it. Four days ago."  
  
Combeferre turned to Grantaire. "The lieutenants only. But bring them quickly."  
  
Grantaire, looking nearly as miserable as Enjolras, took the stairs at a run.  
  
"Enjolras," Combeferre hissed, his full anger only coming to the fore when they were alone. "What on earth were you thinking?"  
  
"That we could still turn the tide! And that if we did, the cost to my dignity would not matter, so long as I could pay it a free citizen of the republic." He gestured at the papers littering his desk—letters, drafts of pamphlets, coded lists of allies and arms. "To sleep seemed selfish. Weak."  
  
Combeferre pulled his glasses down and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "And when did you last sleep?"  
  
"One—no, two nights before the first Glorious Day." Enjolras tried to count on his shaking fingers.  
  
"Eight nights. Enjolras—"  
  
"I did not need the help while we were winning."  
  
"None of us did, then. Enjolras—I'll consult with Joly; he may know more about this than I do. But—you do know the remedy?" His face was somber, as though proposing some truly heroic measure, and it was that sorrowful concern that made the next laugh come out thickened with tears.  
  
"Do you think I haven't _tried?_ Give me some credit for common sense at least. I—my own body is dead to me, Combeferre. That poison cut off everything else when it cut off my sleep. To touch myself was like laying out a corpse. I couldn't. Your—"  he had to turn away from Combeferre's sympathy—"your touch, just then, was the first hint of life I've felt in four days."  
  
"Oh, my friend. I am sorry. I know you would give far more than this for a complete victory; I wish I had one to give you." A sound of low voices rose from the street, followed almost immediately by a tread on the stair. "That will be the others. Is there—should I send anyone away?"  
  
"Send, no. But I will not compel any man to witness this."  
  
"Very well." He made as if to clasp Enjolras' shoulder, but drew back. Enjolras gently touched his hand with the backs of his fingers; the contact made him shiver—he was already starting to grow hard again—but it grounded him, and by the time the door opened his hands had steadied, not entirely, but enough.  
  
Grantaire entered first, with Joly, and came straight to Combeferre's side. "I explained to Joly and Courfeyrac." Grantaire handed the vial to Joly, who repeated Combeferre's sniff and squint.  
  
"And Courfeyrac has no doubt explained to the others by now," Joly said, "in his own inimitable style. I'm sorry, Enjolras, but I thought if it were as serious as Grantaire made it sound—well. It seemed less awkward to give everyone a chance to remember an engagement elsewhere."  
  
Enjolras looked past him to the doorway. "And did anyone?"  
  
"Enjolras," Joly said sternly. "If we did not abandon you in the face of the cannon, we certainly won't now."  
  
"You know of no other remedy, then?" Combeferre said.  
  
"The remedy is to purge the drug from the body."  
  
"A purgation," Enjolras said. "You make it sound so respectably medical."  
  
"And so it is—a balancing of the humors. Well, one humor. On a physiological level, that's all it is. On a practical level, well—there are ways and ways." He peered diagnostically at Enjolras' face. "I assume attempts have been made?"  
  
Enjolras nodded, feeling the blood rising in his cheeks.  
  
"Unsuccessfully?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"All but one," Combeferre said, seeming to hold back his own blush through sheer force of will. "Though inadvertently." He shrugged at Joly. "I tried to take his pulse."  
  
"Oh, dear. That's an extreme reaction even for the dosage."  
  
"It's not just how much you take," Grantaire offered, lowly. "It also depends on the, hah. On the balance of the humors beforehand." He knelt down by Enjolras' chair—to let Enjolras answer without having to look up, he realized, and at that small kindness he no longer had even anger to cling to. "I know you have no mistress but Patria. Does she allow you a free hand? So to speak?"  
  
"She is not that cruel, Grantaire. But—" Enjolras shook his head wearily. "Lately, with revolution on every breath, she has been everything. It is months since I was even tempted."  
  
Grantaire looked up at the two medical men, his face stricken. "You heard the man. I don't know how long it's going to take him to get it out of his system, but you're in for a long night." He stood and tried to shoulder his way between them. "I should just leave you to it, then."  
  
Combeferre caught him by the arm. "Grantaire. Do you speak from personal experience?"  
  
Grantaire stilled. "Once. Yes."  
  
"Then stay. We may have need of your expertise."  
  
"In more than one way," muttered Joly, who was counting heads. "Courfeyrac, what are you doing?" Courfeyrac was lighting the stove, though it was August and warm. Feuilly took two tallow candles and a pewter plate out of the cupboard, and began calmly scraping the candles into shreds. "Oh, very good." Enjolras stared for a moment, confused, but as the tallow began to soften in the heat he understood. The thought made him shudder again, convulsively, not spending a second time but desperately feeling the want of it. This time the fit took him in full view of his friends, his lieutenants; he dropped his eyes, unable to look at any of them.  
  
"Enjolras." Courfeyrac crossed the room, and by his presence transformed the two knots of conversation into one circle. "Whatever you need, we're here for you." He knelt down, as Grantaire had knelt, but he touched Enjolras' knee, familiarly, unbothered by the way Enjolras shivered and leaned into the touch. "Do you know how you want to do this?"  
  
Courfeyrac's hand was warm; it steadied his nerves, but only by draining the tension from his body and into his erection. Enjolras looked down in shame, and then had to close his eyes against the sight of it, straining visibly against his damp trouser-fronts. "I know what must be done," he sighed. "And I am sorry, most heartily sorry to make such a request."  
  
"Enjolras." This was Prouvaire, who now stepped forward. "We are your friends. It is no hardship."  
  
"None at all," Courfeyrac said. "And certainly not compared to what you're going through. Do you need help undressing?"  
  
"Courfeyrac!" Combeferre said. "A little dignity—"  
  
"—is only going to make things worse. Respect, yes, but respect is based on honesty, and to be honest, Enjolras is in a terribly undignified position now and he's about to be in an even less dignified one."  
  
"Surely," Prouvaire began, "if there is a dignity in Nature, then there is a dignity in submission to her—"  
  
"Later, Jehan. Enjolras." He kneaded Enjolras' thigh, and only smiled when Enjolras rocked up into the caress. "Your friends are all here to see that you get through this. We have you." He grinned wider. "And we will all have you, if that's what it takes." Enjolras was barefoot, wearing only his shirt and a pair of old trousers with falls; Courfeyrac calmly undid the buttons at his hip, and at that casual intimacy Enjolras could hold back no longer and spent again. "It's all right, it's all right, I've got you." Courfeyrac was reaching right into his trousers, taking him in hand and gently shaping the length of him. Warmth, the warmth and strength of his hand flowed into him, bringing blood and life back into his body; the climax went on, and on, leaving him finally wrung out and gasping in the chair, with Courfeyrac easing his trousers and drawers down his thighs.  
  
And still, impossibly, horrifically, he was hard. "Am I to have no respite at all, then?" he murmured.  
  
It was Grantaire who answered. "Not until the end." Enjolras forced himself to look up; his friends were ranged around him, all eyes upon him, all filled with sympathy and even horror at his predicament. None with censure; its absence only made him rage harder against himself, his weakness. "Not once you're in this state." He was as sober as Enjolras had ever seen him, and looked more abject than he did in his worst stupors.  
  
Courfeyrac wadded up Enjolras' trousers and matter-of-factly wiped his hands on them. "Logistics, Enjolras. We can drag that screen in front of the bed to give you a little more privacy. We could also spread the mattresses on the floor to give you a little more space. Which do you want?"  
  
"Let us not make this more shameful than my folly has already made it."  
  
"The screen?"  
  
"The other," Enjolras said. He was half naked, desperately aroused, still trembling from his orgasm; he could not imagine what he had left to conceal, but he knew also, from the desperate hunger of his skin, the gnawing deep in his belly, that this was a failure of imagination on his part. "I will not hide from—" he swallowed—"from my saviors. My dear friends."  
  
"As you command," Courfeyrac said. At his nod Bossuet took one of the mattresses, Prouvaire and Combeferre took the other, and they made up a pallet, covered by sheets, in the middle of the floor. Feuilly dragged the desk and chairs out of the way. Courfeyrac began calmly undoing his waistcoat, then his trousers. Combeferre gave him a mildly censorious look. "What? I like these clothes; I'd like to keep them clean." He stepped out of his shoes. "Keep a polite distance if that's what you need to do," he said, more lowly, though still pitched so they all heard. "But he needs as much of you as you can give now." Enjolras turned away and stripped his shirt off, and stayed there, staring at the wall so he would not have to endure their sympathy, hands at his side so he would not have to endure his own touch, hearing the quiet sounds of cloth rustling, shoes coming off. Away from Courfeyrac's comforting touch, from any touch, his body withered around him. He shuddered, with revulsion this time, wishing he could flay himself, could strip away this dead thing he had become and let the pure heart of himself, the part that had written and spoken, agitated and sung, worked for so long without sleep or comfort, walk away and leave it behind forever.  
  
It was Combeferre who came and gently took his arm—he tried not to fight his response to the touch, the heat of him—and led him to the pallet. His friends sat around it, on his two chairs or on the floor, all in shirtsleeves, Bahorel in only his shirt. Grantaire alone, leaning against the bookcase in the darkest corner of the room, was still fully dressed;  he shrank even deeper into the shadows as Enjolras' eyes lit on him, but he did not drop his gaze.  
  
Courfeyrac sat on the pallet, fully naked, cross-legged and unashamedly erect, with the plate of melted tallow on his knee. "Will you trust us?" he said.  
  
As though that were ever in doubt, and as though that were in any way the problem. "You know I can do nothing else." Enjolras shook off Combeferre's arm, hating himself both for the tight-lipped hurt on Combeferre's face and the way the loss of contact made him reel. He settled gingerly to his knees.  
  
"Enjolras." This from Feuilly, straddling one of his chairs. "You took a risk and you lost. If one of your chances had to fail this week, better here than on the barricades."  
  
"Not all I do is strategy, Feuilly," he said, but he said it with a sense of relief. For the first time since he had recoiled from his own touch, and realized just what he had brought on himself, Feuilly's perspective gave him some hope that he might retain not only his friends' sympathy, but their respect.  
  
He glanced between Courfeyrac and Combeferre. "I do not even know how to ask. Or what to ask for." He looked around the circle then, at the faces of all his friends—Bossuet encouraging, Joly wary, Prouvaire mirroring his sorrow and Feuilly his determination. Bahorel leaned against the bedframe in supreme unconcern. Grantaire, who alone of them all had endured this torment, gave him a long frank look, and a short nod: "If it matters," he said, "you'll ask. You'll be surprised at the things you're able to say, when you have to."  
  
He was shivering again. Courfeyrac reached out and took his hand. "We've got you, Enjolras. Let us take care of you." He passed the tallow to Combeferre, and draped his arm over Enjolras' shoulders. The contact overwhelmed him; he could only bury his face in Courfeyrac's shoulder, against his warm, bare skin, and shake in dry-eyed sobs while Courfeyrac slowly drew him down to the mattress and took him in his arms. "That's right," Courfeyrac murmured. "Whatever you need." He stroked his hair, he rubbed circles into his back—chaste touches, there should have been nothing in them to enflame, but every place he touched sprang back into life under his hand, and yearned after it as it moved away; Enjolras found himself writhing, trying, impossibly, to have that reviving caress everywhere at once. He felt his lips drag against Courfeyrac's skin, against the hair of his chest, and only then realized he had spoken aloud—even with his face hidden, he fancied he could feel Grantaire's eyes, his sorrow at being proved prophetic.  
  
"You can have that," Courfeyrac said. "Combeferre, will you get him ready?"  
  
"I? I—yes. Yes, I can." Combeferre touched his shoulder, and Enjolras arched into the pressure of his hand. "Enjolras, will you turn on your side? There," he said, as Courfeyrac manhandled him into place, legs parted, one knee drawn up.  
  
And then Combeferre's hand came back slick with tallow, and gently stroked between his buttocks, and suddenly his lungs could not hold enough air; he gasped, on the precipice again, not knowing what would tip him over, not knowing whether he even wanted to resist, or to fall. "Courfeyrac—please."  
  
"I know what you need. Combeferre, get on with it," he said, against Enjolras's shoulder. And then as Combeferre's fingers pressed at him and gained entry, he slid down Enjolras' body and stretched his mouth over his erection.  
  
Climax took him instantly, wrenching his body, sending his hips jerking between his two tormentors, between Combeferre's long fingers, which worked deeper with every spasm, and the lush heat of Courfeyrac's mouth, swallowing around him. He gasped and shook and curled in on himself, until he was panting, sweat cooling on his brow, cradling Courfeyrac's head against his stomach. Through it all they held him close, Combeferre's arm heavy along his side, Courfeyrac's hands tight on his waist. At last Courfeyrac released him, with a long lick that made him tremble again, in half memory and half anticipation; every motion echoed off Combeferre's fingers, fully inside him, bringing life back to parts of him he had not even known he had lost.  
  
Courfeyrac smiled, impossibly, up at him. "Better?" He trailed a hand up Enjolras' thigh, avoiding his unabated arousal. "Or at least no worse, I trust." He twisted in Enjolras' arms and arranged himself as a pillow under his head. "Combeferre, he's ready for you." He brushed Enjolras' hair back from his forehead and gave him a searching look. "Are you?"  
  
Combeferre crooked his hand, and his body amplified the tiny motion a thousandfold; his hips thrust back of their own accord. "Please," he rasped.  
  
"You are sure this is what you want?" Combeferre said. Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, and he continued, "I mean, from me. Enjolras, do you want this from me?"  
  
Enjolras lifted his head from Courfeyrac's chest and looked over his shoulder: Combeferre, in his shirt with the sleeves rucked up, glasses spotted with condensation, his gentle hands still moving, chastely against Enjolras' back and voluptuously inside him. "I know you have never wanted this." What in Enjolras was dedicated to Patria, separated from base desires and offered up to her, in Combeferre was a lofty hollow, an empty space for the generation of ideas. Enjolras had envied Combeferre his perfect detachment from all passions, except those of the mind; now, he felt a profound gratitude that, of the two of them, it was not Combeferre who had made his mistake. "I cannot demand this of you. But I would ask. I would have it be you."  
  
Combeferre's hands slowed momentarily, but he smiled fondly. "Then of course I will." He withdrew his fingers—gently, but Enjolras mewled at their loss. "Spread your legs a little more." He opened his trousers and slicked himself with the tallow then, the few quick strokes bringing him to full hardness, and took Enjolras' hips in his hands—Courfeyrac helped to hold him steady, spread out, grasping his knee and stroking his leg—and pressed into him in one slow stroke.  
  
He had thought himself open before, with Combeferre's fingers moving in him. It was nothing to this, to the breaking of his body, of his composure, the fracture of his whole history to accommodate this irrevocable moment. His mouth worked, open and dry, but he had no words, nor even a cry. Combeferre was inside him, and he was transformed—and then Combeferre was moving, thrusting, and he was destroyed. Erased, from the inside out; and in his place someone else newly born, someone whose skin was suddenly alive and whole every place, even the most secret, where his friends touched him.  
  
There were hands in his hair—Courfeyrac, searching his face. "Am I hurting him?" Combeferre murmured. "No. Well," Courfeyrac said. "Less than anyone who wasn't you."  
  
Enjolras was beyond pain and pleasure equally, in the grip of sensations so far beyond his imagination that he had neither words to describe them, nor any physical lexicon for the experience, no notion in his body's memory whether to stretch, to sag, to arch, to flinch; whether to chase feeling or shy from it; whether to breathe deep or shallow or to forget to breathe altogether.  
  
He tried them all, seeming to have no will in the matter; his body bent and twisted, blindly seeking understanding. Every reaction brought some new sensation, unfamiliarities compounding, until all he could do was endure.  
  
"Courfeyrac," Combeferre said at length, "soon." His voice was tight. "Presently, even."  
  
"Go ahead," Courfeyrac said. "You've got reinforcements."  
  
Combeferre clutched Enjolras to him, hard, and went suddenly still, and Enjolras realized he had climaxed. His breath was hard and ragged in Enjolras' ear. To this moment it had not struck him that his refusal to hide his own shame required his friends to make this public display, to make themselves so vulnerable in front of each other. He turned his head away from Combeferre, who, still panting into his neck, eased them down until Enjolras was held tightly between him and Courfeyrac, covered and supported by their living flesh.  
  
Combeferre gently took his chin and turned his face up to his own. He was flushed, glasses halfway down his nose, and his lip was bitten bloody. "I'm sorry," Enjolras said.  
  
"Enjolras. Do you think I would do less for any of my brothers, in such straits?" Enjolras shook his head. "Then do not doubt my willingness to do this for you—and gladly." He cupped Enjolras' cheek in his hand, tracing his cheekbone with his thumb. The touch lingered, even when he pulled away from his body. Gently, but still the loss was painful—Enjolras was left hollow, panting, desperate to have back what he had never before wanted, or known he'd wanted. He tried simultaneously to arch back after Combeferre and burrow into Courfeyrac, a sensuous writhe that only made him ache for more.  
  
Courfeyrac just smiled at him and thrust up against him, erection hot against Enjolras' stomach, feeding his own arousal with an ease Enjolras could not comprehend. He reached down to stroke him; his hand was slick, with Enjolras' own spendings. "Are you ready for more?"  
  
Enjolras trembled in his hand—every thrust aroused him more, but nothing eased the ache inside and he could bear neither to move nor to be still. "More," he echoed, with no idea of what that could mean.  
  
Courfeyrac released him with a knowing squeeze and stroke. "Kneel up a little, then. Hands and knees, like that." He slid away—Enjolras shivered, bereft of touch, and even when Courfeyrac draped himself against his thighs and wrapped his arms around his waist, it was not nearly enough. "Tell me if it's too much," Courfeyrac said, and entered him.  
  
It should have been too much—Courfeyrac sank even deeper into him, thrust harder, set a slow rhythm that resounded in every sinew, and after only a few strokes he drummed another climax out of him. Enjolras had now been so near the peak for so long, his belly tight and his limbs trembling, that he did not realize he was clenching with release and not arousal until his arms buckled, and he collapsed with his face against the mattress. Courfeyrac, holding tight to his hips, kept the same pace all through his orgasm, and through the lesser spasms that took him after, and Enjolras reared back, still desperate for more. His perception had narrowed to where Courfeyrac touched him, and yet Courfeyrac seemed to touch him everywhere, so deep was he inside him. And only now, from the openness of his body, from the stretch of his muscles, from the places inside him that pulsed and trembled, other sensations had begun to arise, the first in this ordeal that he could recognize as pleasure; and it was this that at last tore a sob from him.  
  
He stifled it in the mattress, but Courfeyrac was merciless, only took him faster, harder, and he could not stifle the next. He gasped for breath, and then Prouvaire was before him, taking his head in his lap. "Is it so painful?" he said, and stroked Enjolras' hair. "Do you need to stop?"  
  
He buried his face against Prouvaire's thighs. "No. Please," he rasped, his voice now thick with tears, which did not stop even while Courfeyrac stroked his back, even while Prouvaire smoothed his curls and whispered gentle words: that he was brave, that he was treasured. Enjolras wept into his lap, his breath hitching in time with Courfeyrac's sweet thrusts. Prouvaire's warmth against his face soothed his streaming eyes, and the scent of him, sharp and compelling, cut through the thickness in his throat. His mouth was watering with more than tears when Prouvaire's thighs tensed, and Enjolras realized his arousal was straining against the fronts of his ancient and threadbare breeches.  
  
He reached for it before he knew it, felt the warmth and length of him through the cloth, and then pressed his open mouth there to breathe Prouvaire's scent. He wanted this too, and the thought wrung another sob from him. There seemed no limit now to the things he could want, nor any way to ever stop wanting them, not when they enflamed as much as they satisfied, not when Courfeyrac was still drawing such pleasure from the very center of him.  
  
"Jehan," Courfeyrac said now, his voice unsteady for the first time all evening. "You're young, you can get it up twice tonight, right?"  
  
Prouvaire's hand tightened in his hair. "I expect so."  
  
"Go on, then. Gently." And, gently, Prouvaire opened his falls and offered Enjolras his erection in one closed hand. Before Enjolras was aware of opening his mouth he had closed it again around the glistening head.  
  
He held it there in his mouth, feeling the weight of it on his tongue, swallowing the taste of him, while Courfeyrac breathed "You are so beautiful, the both of you, god," and quickened his stroke. Enjolras blinked back his tears; he was filled as deeply as he could be and still he craved more. It was not the craving of earlier, which admitted no need except the most vital, no end but life itself; now his body craved pleasure—and found it, in every way it could be touched or stroked or penetrated—and Enjolras feared he would never be free of the craving again. He worked his mouth down toward Prouvaire's clutching hand and Prouvaire shuddered, his hips thrusting up and bringing his fingers to meet Enjolras' reaching lips.  
  
At this, Courfeyrac's rhythm faltered at last; he gave a few last thrusts and went still, blaspheming rapturously, as Prouvaire thrust up again into Enjolras' mouth.  
  
The drag of that slick skin over Enjolras' tongue was another thing he had not known he wanted, could want, and for a moment the sensation was so intoxicating it almost made up for the emptiness when Courfeyrac left him. Only for a moment—he redoubled his pace, bobbing his head to get that slide again, trying to get the same depth and pace of penetration he craved this way, instead. It was not enough, and he raised his head enough to gasp out, "Please, someone."  
  
Almost immediately there were hands on his shoulders and a voice in his ear—Joly, murmuring encouragements. "You're doing fine, you've got him. You can take as much of him as you want this way. Jehan, give him room." Prouvaire fell back on his arms, and Enjolras lunged after him, sucking, swallowing, moving his head until Prouvaire finally thrust upward again, with enough force to nearly choke him but still not quite enough to satisfy.  
  
Joly rubbed the hinge of his jaw and talked him through it as Prouvaire took his mouth, their hands both curling in his hair. Prouvaire was trembling, and his taste was heady, when a hand finally, finally, came down on his flank. "Listen to Joly," Bossuet said. "He's very good at this."  
  
"And so are you, I can tell, he's almost there," Joly said. "Do you want to let him climax, like this?" Enjolras shuddered at the words, nodded helplessly, and Prouvaire cried out and spent into Enjolras' mouth. Enjolras swallowed what he could and held him in his mouth even after he stilled, unwilling to let him go, to be emptied. But arms around his waist drew him away at last; he cried out in frustration as he was pulled away, but then Bossuet was taking him into his arms. "Don't worry, I've got you."  
  
He knelt behind Enjolras and pulled him into his lap. His legs were bare, and his erection nestled against the small of Enjolras' back. "Here, wait a moment." He stripped off his shirt as well, and then his arms were around Enjolras and they were skin to skin, everywhere. It was better—not enough, but enough that Enjolras could lift his head, finally take notice of anything outside his own skin. Joly was helping a still-dazed Prouvaire sit up; Prouvaire blushed when he caught Enjolras' eye but his smile was as it ever was, open and brilliant.  
  
Joly looked past him, at Bossuet. "Just ‘very good'? That's faint praise, from you."    
  
"Fine," Bossuet sighed. "I happen to think Joly is utterly brilliant at cock-sucking, but I don't see why you should take my word for that."  
  
Joly reclined at Enjolras' side and smiled up at both of them. "And Bossuet is brilliant at fucking, but I'm sure he'll want to prove that to you himself."  
  
"Yes," Enjolras breathed, and in an instant they were both upon him, Bossuet lifting him and setting his erection at his entrance, Joly opening his mouth around his slick member. As one, they settled into him and around him.  
  
Bossuet rocked up into him, gently, but the deepest yet, with Enjolras' own weight forcing him down, splitting him open; every rippling thrust drove him deeper into Joly's warm mouth. Enjolras trembled in every limb, his legs tense with arousal but useless for support, only Bossuet keeping him upright. He was beyond weary but his eyes were dry, and everything was a pleasure to him now, even the strains and tendernesses that he knew would ache tomorrow. He opened his eyes.  
  
The others were still with him, still watching. Prouvaire was smiling almost innocently, and leaning his head against Feuilly's knee in easy companionship, perhaps easier than usual. Feuilly, normally reserved in company, allowed the intimacy and stroked his hair, in a clear effort to keep from stroking himself; he watched intently. Bahorel had already given up any such attempt, and palmed himself lazily. Courfeyrac, still naked and still perfectly careless of it, reclined against Combeferre's side, and Combeferre, fully dressed again and returned to something like his usual composure, seemed happy to have him there. He held Enjolras' gaze for a long moment, and finally, satisfied with what he saw, gave a small, encouraging nod.  
  
Grantaire watched Enjolras, with the familiar hunger in his face, the worship that even this night's display had not dimmed; but for once he also watched the others, almost as intently. He had appointed himself Enjolras' guardian tonight. Something tightened in Enjolras' chest at the realization, and he made himself relax back into Bossuet's embrace, let his head slowly fall back, to reassure Grantaire he was in no pain.  
  
And he was not. Bossuet held him up, bestowed caresses along his ribs, under his navel, around his nipples, waking his skin to new pleasures in a hundred places. Joly's mouth worked ceaselessly around him, lifting him back toward the precipice with heat and suction and the friction of his tongue, and he pressed his thumbs up the muscles of Enjolras' thighs, over and over.  
  
Bossuet rolled his hips under him, and licked his neck and shoulder, and rambled into his ear about Joly's mouth, how lucky Enjolras was to have Joly to take care of him, how lucky he himself was to get to watch. His frankness was a confirmation of what the rest of them had suspected for months now, but never asked about, and Enjolras knew it for the offering it was: a vulnerability, given in trade, like Prouvaire's lying down to be ravished, like Combeferre's gift of virginity for virginity. They humbled him, all his friends' gifts, and he clutched Bossuet's arm to his chest, tangled his other hand in Joly's hair. "I must—I'm—" Joly gripped his thighs tightly, and Enjolras spent into his mouth. Bossuet followed him over the edge, kissing and nuzzling his shoulder and neck.  
  
Another climax that only increased his arousal; Enjolras was rapidly losing both the memory and the hope of ever feeling otherwise. An hour ago he would have despaired at the thought; after another hour of this he thought he might again. But for this moment, dazed on pleasure, he almost forgot why he ever had wanted this to end.  
  
Joly planted a last kiss on Enjolras' thigh and took Bossuet's place, nudging Enjolras down onto his stomach. He drove himself in quickly, and took him with snapping thrusts that made him pant and gasp, "More." A chair scraped against the floor, and then Feuilly was beside him. He took Enjolras' head in his lap, but barred him, with a hand pressed to his mouth, when Enjolras would have opened his trousers. "Let's save that, eh? For now at least." Enjolras breathed into his hand, feeling his breath collect, trapped, in Feuilly's palm. Feuilly let go, but brushed the backs of his fingers over Enjolras' lips, tracing his mouth—and, when Enjolras opened for him, slowly pressed two fingers into his mouth, into the hollow of his tongue.  
  
Enjolras sucked at them gratefully, swallowed around them, followed when he withdrew them and licked his palm, nipped at his thumb, until he gave them back. Enjolras had always venerated Feuilly's hands, as symbols, as metaphors; it seemed more natural now than he would ever have imagined to literalize that adulation, to worship his hands with lips and teeth and tongue, to let all the nerves of his mouth learn the shape of them, long fingers and square knuckles and thrumming veins, so as to tell their virtues all the better in future.  
  
Joly quickened his pace, breathing audibly now. Enjolras struggled to drive himself back onto him with muscles growing too weary and weak for the task, and Feuilly at last took pity on him and plunged his fingers back over Enjolras' tongue, taking his mouth in what at last became, not a mimicry of another intimacy but its own act, with its own purpose; and it was Feuilly's long wanting sigh that made Joly drive hard into him and cry out in orgasm.  
  
Feuilly withdrew his fingers, though he kept his hands on Enjolras' head while Joly pulled out. He leaned down and met his eyes. "How do you want me, Enjolras?"  
  
Enjolras was hollow and aching everywhere, already spreading his legs in reflex and in plea. But "In my mouth," he said, not realizing his desperation for it until the words left him. "Please." Feuilly nodded, and traced his lips again, then looked up and said "Prouvaire?"  
  
Prouvaire was behind him, stroking his back, unleashing a stream of speech as he penetrated him: he was hot, he was slick, his back was carved of opals, he was going to ruin him for women forever and really, if he was going to be sorry for anything it should be for that. He moved slowly, luxuriously, and Enjolras undid Feuilly's buttons with fingers that shook with need and even with eagerness, and took him in his mouth.  
  
If taking Prouvaire this way had been a ravishment, taking Feuilly was an adoration. Enjolras bowed his head—had scarcely the strength to lift it if he had wanted to—and closed his lips and savored: the feel as much as the taste, the softness of the head as it crossed his lips, the fine-grained skin of the shaft, the stretch of his mouth and the way it mirrored the stretch of his entrance, made him feel Prouvaire's lazy strokes all the more deeply.  
  
This was beyond pleasure now—this was transport. It was not what he had felt at the barricade, in the streets, at the steps of the Hôtel de Ville, but he recognized it as a kindred sensation, a rapture he had not imagined mere flesh could attain.  
  
Though the spirit was involved in this as well. Prouvaire's poetic raptures proved it, and though Feuilly said nothing in words, his hands on Enjolras' cheek and shoulder were eloquent of support, comfort, comradeship—and, at last, of delight, as he shuddered and spilled over Enjolras' tongue. Enjolras barely noticed his own climax, so intent was he on Feuilly's—the wrenching out of another few drops of seed caused no change to his condition, but Feuilly's sigh inspired him with a brief glow of pride.  
  
He was immediately abashed by it—to have forced his friends into this was nothing to be proud of, however generous their responses—but Feuilly pulled him to his knees, kissed his brow in thank you and in blessing, and let him lean on his shoulder while Prouvaire grasped his hips tightly and sighed out his own climax. He stilled, panted, withdrew, and dropped his head to Enjolras' back and offered a kiss between his shoulders.  
  
Together they pulled him down to the mattress, flat on his back, breath coming ragged and hard. Either he still trembled from that almost-neglected orgasm, or else it had never stopped—he was still erect, still spasming at intervals, even with nothing left to spend; and inside, too, spasms still seized him, setting off bursts of pleasure in far-flung regions, making him suddenly aware of his palm, his collarbone, the skin behind his knee.  
  
He did not know what more he could endure of pleasure, nor what more he would have to endure to end this. He opened his eyes as Feuilly and Prouvaire rolled away and sat up; Bahorel was kneeling beside him, with a look of amusement that broke into laughter as Enjolras met his eyes.  
  
"So you're done treating this like a funeral, I hope?" He was already reaching familiarly for Enjolras' hips, dragging them up on onto his lap. "Because if you're just going to mope and apologize, someone else can have my turn."  
  
"Bahorel," Enjolras said, letting his head fall back against the mattress, "get on with it if you're going to."  
  
"Now, see, that's what I like to hear," Bahorel said. "That's what Courfeyrac's mistress always says to me." Courfeyrac made an obscene gesture, but his comment was lost under Enjolras' own cry as Bahorel entered him.  
  
Bahorel had more girth than any of them, and even after all that had gone before, Enjolras burned with the stretch of accommodating him. Bahorel gave him no time to adjust, but thrust again, pulling almost all the way out so that Enjolras felt the stretch of penetration again on the next stroke, and the next, and the next. Still each stroke went deep; Bahorel kept hold of his hipbones, not so much thrusting as working Enjolras' body up and down his erection.  
  
Enjolras planted his feet and tried to give him what help he could, to drive himself into that burn, that impact, but he had not the strength. He could only lie back and let himself be taken, used. Overwhelmed; the echoes of his last orgasm had still not abated, and almost every thrust evoked another spark of pleasure somewhere in his weary body; some of it mingled with pain now, from his long usage tonight. Or from before; there were the muscles strained heaving paving stones, the small wounds of powder burns, truncheon blows, bullet grazes, none of them worth stopping for, but all of them becoming known now. He would ache tomorrow in more ways than one.  
  
He ached now—yearned after a true climax, a culmination of pleasure and an end to it; or a pause, at least; a sleep.  
  
Bahorel fought his body for that, gave him a harder rhythm, a faster, leaned in until every stroke hit the tenderest place inside; he watched his face as he would watch a wrestler's, a boxer's, for any sign of weakness, and pressed every advantage he found. And it was almost enough; Enjolras was hard, trembling, clenching around him with the last strength in his body when, with a groan, Bahorel shuddered against him and spent.  
  
Bahorel did not give up easily; he stayed inside him and reached for Enjolras' erection, but Enjolras was as tender there as anywhere—more, even—and the firm grip that might have taken him over the edge was more than he could bear; he shied from the touch, and Bahorel, swearing, let him go and pulled out. Enjolras cried out in wordless frustration, felt his eyes sting again; he spread his legs, twisted his body in a blind search for sensation. Over his own tear-choked keening he heard Courfeyrac: "If I'd had more than one night's sleep this week, absolutely, but tonight?" Courfeyrac knelt at his side; at the other was Combeferre, snapping "You still have hands, don't you? We all do, come to that." He took Enjolras' hand and clasped it tightly; the contact was a lifeline, and Enjolras caught his breath, though his eyes still streamed.  
  
Courfeyrac, instead of answering, looked up, and Enjolras struggled to lift his head and follow his gaze. Grantaire had left his dark corner.  
  
He knelt on the pallet by Enjolras' side. There was a spark of hope and desire in his eyes—a rare thing in him, and its sight would have cheered Enjolras had the circumstances been anything else, and had every other line of Grantaire's face and body not expressed his disgust with that spark, his overwhelming wish to extinguish it. "Enjolras," he said, and touched his shoulder gently. He waited to continue until Enjolras met his eyes. "Will you permit it?" He was still fully dressed. "Permit this, from me?"  
  
"Yes." Enjolras was ready to beg him for it, was ready to beg anyone. Which Grantaire knew, of course, and from experience. Enjolras could not suppress his revulsion at the thought of what he might have come to—what Grantaire, he suspected, had come to—without such friends around him.  
  
Grantaire saw the emotion on his face, but not its cause; he rose without a word, turning away.  
  
"Grantaire." Enjolras struggled to sit up; Courfeyrac caught him and supported him. "I permit this. And I request it." He swallowed down a mouthful of tears. "I want this—and from you. Please."  
  
Grantaire did not turn around at once; Enjolras could see him mastering the set of his shoulders, could only imagine his face. At last he nodded to the far wall, and quickly stripped off his clothes and kicked them away. He found the remains of the tallow and slicked himself—unnecessarily, as wet and open as Enjolras was, but it gave him another moment to master himself. Enjolras let Courfeyrac hold him, let Combeferre clasp his hand, let their touch ground him while his hips jerked of their own accord and his legs trembled and his eyes ran with tears. And then Grantaire was crouching down, between his knees, leaning over Enjolras to touch his face and say "Whatever you need. Anything."  
  
"You know what I need." Enjolras' legs were already twining around Grantaire's back. "Please." And because Grantaire still did not move, "Please, take me."  
  
Combeferre released his hand, with one final press; Courfeyrac laid him down, and as he stood clasped Grantaire's shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. Grantaire grimaced at the touch, and now Enjolras did regret not asking for a screen, for some privacy, because for Grantaire there was more to this act than comradeship, more than kindness or brotherhood, sympathy or friendship. He was taking up a cup he knew would not be offered again—the same clenching seized Enjolras' chest—and he could only trust his friends to avert their eyes, because Grantaire was taking his knees on his shoulders and turning to hide his face in Enjolras' thigh. His erection jumped and slid at Enjolras' slick entrance while he drew in a deep breath, and a second; and then he met Enjolras' eyes and sank into him in one deep stroke, bending him nearly double, his hair falling around his eyes and his breath warm in Enjolras' face.  
  
Enjolras was too weary to strain back against him as his whole body yearned to do, but that very weariness amplified the sensation of every motion: the slight arching of his back, the rush of air into his lungs, the hungry pull of his insides against each penetration. He sobbed again in his relief at being touched, as deeply and completely as he needed. Grantaire watched his face, his hand hesitating, barely tangling in the ends of Enjolras' hair. He kept his eyes on him, dark and intent, while Enjolras cried out at every thrust; but as the relief began to mount into pleasure, and Enjolras' cries took on a brighter tone, Grantaire's head dropped between his shoulders, face hidden.  
  
Enjolras lifted a heavy hand to draw the hair back from his forehead, and strained up to place a kiss of forgiveness and thanks on his brow. Grantaire shuddered and closed his hand in Enjolras' hair. "May I?" he pled, against Enjolras' mouth. "Enjolras, I beg you, this one thing—"  
  
Enjolras opened his mouth, and the "Yes" on his tongue was swallowed before he could utter it—Grantaire kissed him, shallowly at first and then desperately, as Enjolras welcomed every press of lips, welcomed his tongue, opened to him this way as well. It was no less an intimacy than what he had done with Prouvaire and Feuilly—and indeed, if Feuilly's hands were the seat of his soul, Grantaire's mouth was the seat of his, both a fount of bitterness and laughter and a gaping wound he filled with drink. He drank Enjolras now, sucking his lower lip, stealing his breath, licking his tongue, until Enjolras could bear no more and had to tear away and cry out.  
  
But this only exposed his neck to Grantaire's kisses, his ear, his cheek, his shoulder. Enjolras let himself be kissed, marked, let himself be turned and laid out for Grantaire to taste. He had neither the strength to resist nor the desire—overwhelmed, shattered, uncertain he had the energy even for the climax he so craved, he could do nothing but submit to Grantaire's ministrations, the soft caresses as much as the forceful thrusts.  
  
Without slackening either attention, Grantaire breathed into his neck and murmured, "When this is over. When this is over she'll take you back, your Patria." It was grief, Enjolras thought, but he went on, and it became reassurance. "Even after this, she'll take you back. Enjolras. Enjolras, I've never asked you for anything. I'm asking this. Enjolras. Do not despise yourself for what you know you're capable of now. Don't despise your body for what you know it can do." He laughed into Enjolras' shoulder, bitterly. "For her, if not for me. These arms—" he matched his touch to his words—"you fight with these arms. You inspire—" he looked up, lip twisted—"with this mouth. You dedicate it all to her, flesh and spirit, all of it." The wry twist of his mouth soured into a look he hid against Enjolras' collarbones. "You can't offer dross to your idols. I know that much. Why should they take what you despise?" He looked up, desperate, and kissed Enjolras' mouth again. "Promise me this one thing. This, and nothing else, ever, I swear."  
  
"I promise," Enjolras gasped. He kissed Grantaire's brow again, solemnly, to seal it.    
  
This time when Grantaire lifted his head he blinked back tears, but there was a new peace in his eyes. He raised himself on his arms. "Can you touch yourself?"  
  
Enjolras reached between them. His hand, against his own skin, was warm, living; he felt his pulse pounding at the base of his thumb. He spread a hand over his own stomach and pressed up into the touch, his body finally his own again. "Yes. Yes."  
  
"Then do it," Grantaire rasped. "Touch yourself, your cock, stroke yourself. You're almost there, it's almost over."  
  
Enjolras was thrusting against his palm even before he could close his fingers. This, too, this part of him was fully alive, fully himself. He stroked, and Grantaire thrust in time with his motions, took him sweetly and deeply while Enjolras shuddered, and spent, and came apart around him.  He stayed buried in him, stroking his hair, while Enjolras lay panting, feeling his breath slow, feeling the spasms within him ebb, feeling his erection finally subside back into quiescence, and the echo of all the night's pleasures finally imbue his weariness with a bone-deep sense of satisfaction, of repleteness.  
  
He opened his eyes; Grantaire looked down at him with shy pride. "There," he said, and kissed Enjolras' brow, once, chastely. "You've done it. It's over."  
  
He began to pull out, and Enjolras realized he had still not climaxed. "Not for you," he protested, and crossed his ankles behind Grantaire's back.  
  
Grantaire's eyes went wide, as though this, after everything, had at last the power to frighten him. He reached between their bodies and wonderingly traced Enjolras' member, spent and soft. "Enjolras?"  
  
"After what I have endured tonight, do you think I would leave you like this?" He pressed his feet into Grantaire's shoulders, urging him forward. "Come. Let me do this."  
  
With a sigh one step from a sob, Grantaire thrust, helplessly; and, when Enjolras allowed it, again, falling back into a rhythm. He stroked Enjolras' face with one hand—his cheek, his hair—infinitely gently, as though the caress might break him.  
  
There was, Enjolras realized, still a pleasure in the act, even with the compulsion to climax removed, even sore and strained as he was. That knowledge—that he could take pleasure even in this, and that it could be had for a lesser price than those agonies of desperation and need—seemed the most dangerous of everything he had learned this night. But the tender places inside that had made him tremble before still sent echoes of delight up into his belly; the rhythmic strokes lulled him, the warmth of Grantaire's body soothed him, and he found himself again giving voice to sensation—a small moan, made hoarse by the cries that had ravaged his throat but nothing like them, a sound not of need but of contentment. At that quiet sound, Grantaire choked, and spent, and fell back into his arms.  
  
The embrace did not last. Grantaire, with a last chaste kiss to Enjolras' lips, rolled aside and left him, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac were there at his sides, helping him to sit up. "Just leave me where I am," Enjolras said, pettishly—he could feel the possibility of sleep now, oceans of sleep, a tide of it rising all around him—but they were stern.  
  
"You'll sleep better if you let us make up the bed," Combeferre said.  
  
"And if you wash," Courfeyrac added, and to that there was no good argument. They hauled him to the washstand behind its screen. Joly had heated water; he brought it, and a chair, and Courfeyrac found him a clean nightshirt while the others helped him, kindly but with medical efficiency, to wash. They tutted over his head at the state of him, and Combeferre insisted on binding one of the bullet grazes, which had opened again, but they agreed that if he slept, and drank the water they pressed on him, he would take no permanent harm. "Though you won't relish sitting down for a few days," Joly warned.  
  
Enjolras had other worries—or one, for, so pressed by sleep, he could barely keep even that one idea in his mind. "Combeferre," he said, as they helped him into the nightshirt, "do not let Grantaire leave until I can speak with him."  
  
Combeferre looked up at him over his glasses, in evident surprise, but after a moment he nodded. "It would be beyond cruel," he agreed, "to let him slip away down the neck of a bottle tonight."  
  
Enjolras let Combeferre lead him back out, leaning heavily on him to stay upright. The others had reassembled his bed and made it up with clean sheets, and put the few bits of furniture back where they had been. Now they lingered, Grantaire still dressing—someone had folded his clothes neatly onto a chair. Bossuet, a tallow thumbprint on his waistcoat, bundled the dirty sheets away into the laundry basket, and Bahorel scraped congealing tallow off the plate with a knife; Prouvaire calmly sorted through the papers on his desk, taking the finished drafts for distribution, not even needing to ask which they were; Feuilly and Courfeyrac, having abstracted his letter to the Cougourde from Prouvaire's stacks, leaned over it together, already deep in argument.  
  
They needed to see him whole again, his lieutenants, needed to see what they had accomplished; none of them would leave without assuring themselves Enjolras was all right. "My friends," he said. "I thank you." Joly turned down the bed, and Enjolras sat heavily down, but met each of his friends' eyes in turn, nodded his thanks. Perhaps Prouvaire's smile was shyer than before, perhaps Feuilly's was warmer. But nothing essential had changed; only his understanding of what had always been there.  
  
Joly made some rapid and half-Latin negotiation with Combeferre; Enjolras saw him pocket the vial with the remains of the drug. "I'll look in in the morning, then," he said, and, to Enjolras, "Drink another glass of water before you sleep, and no hot foods tomorrow."  
  
Grantaire, his cravat done up haphazardly, sidled toward the door but found his way barred by Courfeyrac. "Grantaire," Enjolras said. "Please stay a moment."  
  
"Or longer," Combeferre said. "I may need to consult with you about after-effects."  
  
"Haven't you had enough of my expertise for one night?" Grantaire said, though he suffered Courfeyrac to lead him to the bedside.  
  
Joly and Combeferre exchanged another series of nods, a medical semaphore, and Joly took Bossuet's arm and together they shepherded the others out the door. "Sleep well!" Bossuet called.  
  
And then it was Courfeyrac and Combeferre, and Grantaire, standing around his bed, and they would not let him stay upright any longer; Courfeyrac brought him water and Combeferre put him to bed, even smoothing the bedclothes as fussily as any nursemaid. "Grantaire," Enjolras said again.  
  
He knelt by the bed, for once with nothing to say, looking like he expected an edict of banishment.  
  
"Does it change anything," Enjolras said, fighting sleep now as desperately as he had courted it before, because this had to be said tonight, "if I tell you I have never despised you, or despised what you offer me?"  
  
To his surprise, Grantaire only laughed, mirthlessly and horribly. "I know," he said. "That's the joke of it all, isn't it? Oh, all Cretans are liars and I have drowned myself in the wines of Crete. I persuade myself that you despise me—it's not hard to do; I despise myself most of the time and I am known as an arbiter of taste. I know it's a lie; it's a lie as sweet and necessary as the Cretan grape."  
  
"Why should you tell yourself such a lie?" He glanced up over Grantaire's bowed head; neither Combeferre nor Courfeyrac were pretending not to listen, and he was grateful for their honesty.  
  
Grantaire looked up, his face as sober, and as bleak, as Enjolras had seen it, and he knew that Grantaire, too, was capable of no less honesty. "Because if you do not despise me—and what I would offer, it's the same thing, it's all myself—if you esteem that gift at all, though you turn it down, you leave me with hope." He swallowed. "A vain hope, I know, I know, and a bitter one—all hope is bitter, it's a lie corked with truth. It offends me, and I would pluck it out if I could, but it's rooted too deeply; I'd pluck out my own heart."  
  
"And so you poison it instead," Enjolras said. "And yourself. Grantaire. Why do you come to our meetings, if you are so averse to hope?"  
  
Grantaire rose to his feet. "Because if I swallow enough of it, maybe it will lose its bitterness," he said. "It's worked for other things. Good night, Enjolras."  
  
"Grantaire—" Enjolras did not know what else he could say. He had made Grantaire the one promise he could. But if Grantaire left like this, all the fragile honesty salvaged from his folly would be lost—as Combeferre had said, down the neck of a bottle.  
  
But it was Combeferre who came to his rescue. "Grantaire, please do stay. I meant what I said about your expertise." He pulled his chair to the bedside and calmly took Enjolras' hand and felt his pulse. This time the touch was only what it should be, warm and comforting, though Enjolras was deeply aware of the warmth, the gentle strength in his grip, even after he released his hand. "In fact I should like to speak with you about how you gained it, if you're willing."  
  
"Combeferre, I promise you, there's nothing else I learned that'll help him now—"  
  
"I know," Combeferre said. "I'd like to help you."  
  
Grantaire looked down at him incredulously. "Too late for that, don't you think?"  
  
Courfeyrac sat down on the foot of the bed, climbed over Enjolras' feet and curled up against the wall. "Combeferre gets these notions that everything can be remedied," he said. "Sometimes he's wrong." He smiled his most winning smile. "But I've learned to stop placing wagers on his remedies until I've tried them."  
  
"Grantaire," Enjolras murmured, his eyes falling closed halfway through the word. "For me, please." He held out his hand.  
  
"Don't you need to sleep?" Grantaire murmured, but the bed was already bowing as he propped his feet on its edge, across from Courfeyrac. And then Enjolras' hand was enclosed again, by Grantaire's—broader, warmer, damp with nervous perspiration but holding on, taking his hand as he would take whatever Enjolras offered.  
  
"Don't worry about Enjolras," Combeferre said. The light dimmed as he placed a shade over the candle, but did not blow it out. "The crisis really is past. Nothing will stop him from sleeping tonight."  
  
It was the last thing Enjolras remembered hearing, but he took into his dreams the pressure of Grantaire's hand, and the low voices of his friends, echoing over his skin, making him whole.  
  



End file.
